


you do this thing

by cynthia_arrow (thesilverarrow)



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:37:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverarrow/pseuds/cynthia_arrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He sits on the edge of the bed. "You sure you don't want to go for one more?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	you do this thing

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to livejournal a long damn time ago, and without a title. In archiving it here, I've given it one.

"Okay, okay, no more," CJ says, slapping at his hand and nudging his shoulder with her elbow. Josh tries his best to cling, but she begins rocking his ungraceful hips with her hands, building up to a litany: "Out, out, out, out, out."  
  
He surrenders, unceremoniously rolling off the bed.  
  
"Gotta be there by seven," she says. He's already slipping back into his boxers (he never walks around nude), and she's suddenly grateful she surrendered some closet space to his menagerie of suits. If she hadn't, he would have already be gone, and she wouldn't have just had some damn good sex. She knows she should get up, but she feels so sated. Her skin buzzes pleasantly, but she's also kind of sleepy.  
  
But sex only ever seems to make Josh hungrier for it. His libido had been a pleasant surprise, one of many in becoming the man's regular bed-mate. Another was how he looked at her, when they weren't at work. There, he was much the same as he'd always been—a pain in her ass and the person she'd most want around when the shit hit the fan. In her bedroom, though, like now, his eyes skim and skim over her body. His concentration and determination do not surprise her. His fucking playfulness does.  
  
"It's Saturday," he half-whines. "You don't  _gotta_  be there by any time."  
  
"But I've got—"  
  
"Half of what I've got on my desk. And I'm not bitching about it."  
  
She throws a pillow at him, which he catches and tosses back onto the bed as he pulls a green tie around his neck. She likes this part of the morning, the watching him dress. Buttoning cuffs, buckling belts. She's surprised he hasn't tried to drag her into a very unproductive shower, but he's apparently all bark and no bite this morning.  
  
She watches him straighten himself out in the mirror, run a hand through his hair and then begin a desperate search of the room for his shoes, discarded not in the heat of passion the night before but in the neglect of exhaustion. They fuck in the mornings, if she can coax him into waking early and he can coax her into arousal. It works often enough, and when it does, it works very well. That has been the most surprising thing of all.  
  
He sits on the edge of the bed. "You sure you don't want to go for one more?"  
  
"One more?"  
  
He waggles his eyebrows at her and his eyes travel up and down her body, landing not so subtly on her thighs, then between them.  
  
"You couldn't get it up again," she says, rolling her eyes.  
  
He sticks his tongue out at her and moves on to the curious kitchen portion of his dash out the door, which involves downing of a glass of orange juice as he stands over the sink and eating a piece of bread, untoasted.  
  
When he's done, he comes in to kiss her goodbye. Surprising fact number 417: he has his rituals, and many of them are disturbingly sweet.  
  
And in this case involving an ulterior motive.  
  
"Offer still stands, gorgeous," he says as he leans over her, and she wants to laugh, because it's Josh and it will always be weird to hear him say shit like that, especially because he has no idea how silly he sounds, but she doesn't. He tastes like toothpaste and orange juice and she figures he must like that if he does it on purpose. She's grown accustomed to it.  
  
But he's still hovering. "You sure you don't want to try for two?"  
  
"I hate to tell you, boy wonder," she says, "but we passed two about half an hour ago."  
  
"Yeah?" Oh, that's a cute face: shocked but impressed with himself…and amazed at her. He's looking again.  
  
"Yeah. Dumbass."  
  
He grins, then, and drops his brief case on the floor as he pounces back onto the bed, straddling one of her legs and leaning down to kiss her even as his hand parts her thighs and,  _there_ , he's got two fingers inside her and his thumb teasing at her clit. Everything's still a little sensitive, but she pushes her hips up into his hand anyway, even as she's tearing her mouth away.  
  
"No. Jesus. C'mon, Lyman."  
  
But she's still wet and getting wetter again and he knows it. He's on top of her fully clothed, and she'd spreading her legs like a whore so he'll thrust his fingers deeper. It's not at all the same as his cock, but it's good, and the feel of the material of his pants against her bare thighs is unexpectedly good, too, teasing in a way his hand has entirely forgotten to be. He pinches her clit now, and though she yelps a little, she writhes beneath him and into him at the same time he settles down over her and closes his mouth over a nipple.  
  
"Twice, before?" he says against her breasts.  
  
"Yes, Josh. It was- oh  _fuck_ \- it was-"  
  
"Amazing. Say it was amazing."  
  
" _I_  was amazing."  
  
"Fuck yeah. Now, c'mon, I know you can do three."  
  
"No. God. You're such a sadistic bastard. I can't-"  
  
His face is suddenly there at her neck, and he's talking in her ear. He's fucking  _talking_ , low and fast.  
  
"Do you know, CJ, do you know how hot you are this morning, baby? I love to see you like this. You know, you do this thing, it's like you glow after I've been inside you, and I don't wanna go to work at all, I wanna have the refractory period of a fucking twenty year old again just so I can spend all day in bed making you come and come and come."  
  
"Josh," she whines.  
  
"You're close, aren't you?" he says and she can hear his grin.  
  
"Fuck you."  
  
He thrusts harder with his fingers, smiling mischievously.  
  
She protests, "It's not gonna work."  
  
He murmurs, "You know, I have never seen someone so determined not to have an orgasm."   
  
Suddenly, he's pressing her down into the mattress harder, his hand trapped between them as he thrusts deeper with his fingers and, somewhere inside, he presses with one of them and  _oh God_.  
  
Then he's talking again, pressing and talking. It shouldn't be as sexy as it is. "Maybe it'll be a good day today. Maybe nobody will come near your office. Maybe you can sit down at your desk and work your way through that whole big stack of things to do, answer all your emails and return all your phone calls and the phone won't ring once to disturb you. There will be no international crises and you'll get so far ahead of the game that you won't even have to go in tomorrow and you can spend the whole day here with me, in this bed—"  
  
"Fuck," she cries. "You are- so impossibly weird. Trying to get me off talking about- Oh-"  
  
"It's working."  
  
"Personal foul!" she squeaks, squirming, bending her whole body into it. So close.  
  
He giggles, nipping at her jaw. "What?"  
  
"Crises. You can't use-  _ah_ \- Latinate plurals-  _ohJesusfuckme_ \- in-"  
  
There's no distinct snap of pleasure—she thinks she's so far gone she can't even feel it anymore—but there is a wonderful abatement of tension as she comes again and she feels herself loll back onto the bed, panting, her eyes finally opening wide again to see such an attractively smug grin on his face. About two seconds after that, though, her whole body mobilizes to get him the hell off of her or she'll scream to break glass. Her clit is throbbing now, so sensitive it nearly aches, but it was so worth it.  
  
He licks his fingers on his way into the bathroom. When he comes out, she's struggled up out of the bed and thrown on her bathrobe. He looks presentable enough for government work.  
  
He's looking at her again, that way he does, at the V of her neckline and her bare legs. She'd blush if she wasn't too old for being embarrassed about being stared at. Okay, so maybe it was the third orgasm, the Oh-my-God-you-own-my-body, if only for a minute, that made her slightly…nervous.   
  
He kisses her on the cheek, then he says, "Latinate plurals?"  
  
"Shut up," she says, and he dissolves into giggles, ducking away from the swing of her hands and out of the room.   
  
She has half a mind to throw his ass on the bed and wait out his penis, just to prove that a) he's nowhere near that articulate when he's coming and b) big words get him even hotter than they do her; but she forces herself to simply flip him off and retreat to the bathroom.   
  
"Your ass is mine later," she calls out before she shuts the door. "And you had better bring a fucking dictionary."  
  
Out in the living room, he just cackles. 


End file.
